The Song of the Warrior
by Hyroo Himolil
Summary: An epic story following Ulfrin, a Norse warrior, as he fights alongside his gallant warband in defense of his homeland against the Roman invasion.
1. Chapter 1

The Song of the Warrior

Chapter 1: The Warband

Hrolfir and Ulfrin had been friends for as long as they could remember. Hrolfir was always a short child, but with broad shoulders and built like a barrel. His strawberry-blond matted hair stuck to his head as he and Ulfrin ran shouting through the fields of grain during the short Nordic summer.

"Get out of our lands, you dogs!" shouted Ulfrin, after their imaginary Roman foe.

"That's right, run, you swine!" yelled Hrolfir. With a grunt of effort, he hurled his toy spear at one of the imaginary legionnaires. "Serves you right… Oof!" cried Hrolfir as he tripped over his own feet and tumbled to the earth. They both broke out laughing as Ulfrin helped him to his feet.

This is the memory that surfaced in Ulfrin's mind as he looked down at Hrolfir's lifeless body, pierced through the heart by a very real Roman javelin. Ulfrin's shock overwhelmed him. He stood rooted to the spot as javelins cut through the trees all around him. Suddenly, his mind burning at the loss of his friend, he felt the shock turn to blind, crazed anger. The misty air was dank and cold, but Ulfrin felt only the heat of rage. With a swift, practiced motion Ulfrin drew a long, sharp throwing axe and lodged it in the throat of a legionnaire standing forty feet away. He raised his great steel battleaxe high above his head and began to run.

With a bellowing roar Ulfrin charged towards the clearing where the Romans stood, accompanied only by the warm red madness that clouded his mind. All thought faded, and he moved on instinct to inflict the revenge he so dearly desired. He neared the edge of the woods when, out of nowhere, a firm hand grabbed his tunic and pulled him into a hollow between two boulders.

"Dammit, Ulfrin! Quell your madness! Your revenge will come, that is certain." Whispered Grimr harshly in his ear. Captain Grimr was a wise captain and had kept his warband alive through many a battle. He was a tall man, bordering on seven feet, and strong as an ox. He had a long, blond beard and a perpetually dirty mop of straw-blond hair that stuck out under his helmet. Gudbjorn, the old and wizened bard, looked up from the piece of wood he was carving and placed a hand on Ulfrin's shoulder. Ulfrin could now see that his warband was hiding all around; behind trees, in ditches, and behind boulders like this one. Familiar faces helped pull Ulfrin's mind back from the anger of Hrolfir's death.

"Hrolfir died well, Ulfrin. He will be celebrating in Valhalla by now, you should not despair." Gudbjorn said with a smile. "In the meantime, there is much work to be done." The old man made one last cut in the wood. Ulfrin watched, fascinated, as Gudbjorn drew a keen-edged knife from his long robes, sang something under his breath, and plunged the knife into his hand. He grasped the carved wood with his bleeding hand and instantly the light mist of morning began to thicken and rise. Ulfrin was surprised to find he couldn't even see his hands in front of his face anymore.

"So he can conjure a mist as well? Our old man is full of surprises." Ulfrin whispered to Grimr.

"Trust me, young Ulfrin. He can conjure much greater things than mists. Blood magic is powerful stuff, my young friend!" Grimr laughed under his breath, his ice-blue eyes lighting up at the thought of the coming battle. "The Romans won't be able to see anything in this shit. Surtr, sound the call." Grimr whispered. Surtr, a thickset northman with hazel eyes and mangy brown hair, nodded to his captain. Surtr put his fingers to his lips and whistled with a noise that sounded like some strange, warbling bird, signaling to the other hiding warriors that the time had come to attack. Movement could be heard far off, distorted by the thick fog. "Let's show these Romans that this is still Norse land. Follow close, for a panicked beast kicks hardest." said Grimr, now wrapping his hand in a cloth. The warriors crept toward the Roman torchlight. Ulfrin gripped his battleaxe tightly as they neared the enemy. Grimr nudged Surtr in the ribs, prompting him to whistle a low note that quickly trilled into a piercing shriek. The shocked cries of the Romans could be heard through the mists as the Northmen's slow, stealthy creep accelerated into a terrible charge. Ulfrin charged, swung his axe, and one of the Romans fell to the ground with a great gash from shoulder to waist. All around legionnaires fell as blades flashed like flecks of silver through the haze. A soldier, running with sword drawn, swung out at Ulfrin like a ghost from the mists. Ulfrin deftly parried the blow with his axe and turned the momentum of the movement into a swift chop at his opponent's neck. His axe connected with a sound of snapping bone and a spray of blood, flecking Ulfrin's fur tunic with red. As the decapitated body fell, Ulfrin turned to see Gudbjorn battling with a Roman spearman. Gudbjorn, whirling his staff like a hurricane, struck at his opponent's knees. The soldier fell, but in falling dealt Gudbjorn a glancing blow in the back of the head with the butt of his spear. With an odd stunned smile, the old man hit the earth. With the fall of the magician, the mists that had been concealing the battle suddenly thinned and died, exposing the last remnants of the cohort battling with the mad Norsemen. Ulfrin dashed to Gudbjorn's aid, felling the spearman before he had the chance to rise. By the time he reached him, however, the Romans were already in full retreat.

"Cowards…" muttered Ulfrin, who then turned his attention to the fallen Gudbjorn.

"What happened here?" asked Grimr, coming up behind Ulfrin.

"He took a spear-butt to the back of his head. It doesn't look serious."

"Well, wake him up then." Said Grimr, reaching into his sack and dumping the contents of his waterskin on the stunned man's head. Gudbjorn awoke with a start.

"Eah! What are you doing? I was awake already, you fool." Complained Gudbjorn, his blue-green eyes drilling into Grimr's face.

"Of course you were, old man." Laughed Grimr, "now let's get ourselves back to town, I have a victory I want to celebrate."

"We need to get Hrolfir's body." Ulfrin said quietly. The sudden weight of his loss felt like a physical blow. "We can't leave him here."

"Of course not, Ulfrin." Reassured Gudbjorn. "He will be given a funeral fit for a king at the village. It will be a grand celebration. Smile for him, for Hrolfir feasts among the victorious dead!"

Ulfrin smiled. Of course Gudbjorn is right. Hrolfir died in glorious battle, as every good Norseman hopes to do. Right now, probably, his soul is being ferried to Asgard on the white flying steeds of the Valkyries, where he will feast and drink with the gods in the Great Hall. He couldn't dispel a kernel of sadness in his heart, however unfitting it was for a victorious warrior. He couldn't help but wonder if Hrolfir really is alright.

The warriors, as soon as they returned from the battlefield, informed the families of the slain of the fates of their sons. The funeral ceremony was second nature to the warband, as the rugged fighters had performed it many times. Adults wore somber faces and fine clothing, while the children, too young to understand, wept for their brothers. Only five Northmen were killed in the battle, but their funeral was the first priority of the spiritual Norse. A great pile of firewood was set up while a somber procession carried the broken bodies to the pyre. The warriors stood on either side of the construction with stoic faces, standing like statuesque guardians of the dead. The bodies were laid in their finest clothes, along with their swords, shields and spears, upon the plateau of wood. Ulfrin's heart froze as he saw Hrolfir's face, sitting in peaceful, pale repose, looking far nobler in the clothes of death than he ever did in life. Each of the fallen was given his weapons; fine spears, shining swords and strong shields. Out of the light mist, a figure in a flowing black robe walked towards the pyre with a burning torch in his hand like the specter of death, ready to ignite the funeral fire when the time came. A lone girl took up a wailing song of mourning as Gudbjorn recounted the deeds of the slain. Ulfrin's head hurt as memory on top of memory resurfaced in his mind, pulled up from the depths by the bard's poetry. Gudbjorn's last refrain of praise to the heavens faded away and Surtr put the torch to the dry wood. Almost instantly, a great flame burned through the bodies of the fallen. Hrolfir's mother clenched her jaw as she saw the son she had raised burning on a funeral pyre. Ulfrin watched as the great fire burned and the grey ashes flew skyward. Ulfrin tried to hold back his sadness but he could not suppress a single tear which ran down his face, streaking his muddied face with a line of pure white.

Later that evening, the warriors filled the tavern to celebrate their triumph over Rome. Ulfrin had donned his best outfit, a fine linen jerkin and pants in a shade of dark green and a wolf's fur to stave off the cold. Happy music spilled forth from the mouths of the drunken warriors and from the instruments of the musicians. The barwenches rushed from one end of the great table to the other, constantly refilling ale mugs. All drank toasts to victory and to the victorious dead. Ulfrin, however, couldn't bring himself to be merry. He sighed after another toast and tossed his ale over his shoulder. He didn't really feel like drinking. He got out of his chair and headed out the door at the end of the great hall. Frowning, he gazed up at the stars above. Did they look back? Are there really people on the other boughs of the World Tree, and do they look up at the stars and wonder too? Ulfrin leaned against the longhall and pondered. He had never seen the least evidence of it in this world.

"You just aren't looking in the right places." Said a girl standing in the doorway. She looked like one of the barwenches, but she seemed quite a bit taller than the other girls. She had her strawberry-blond hair cut short, unlike the other girls, and her green eyes seemed to gaze through him.

"What do you mean?" said Ulfrin. "What are you talking about?"

"You are looking for the gods in the stars, trying to prove to yourself that Hrolfir's spirit really did go to the Great Hall of Asgard."

"How would you know?" Asked Ulfrin, now quite intrigued.

"Because I lost someone too. I felt the same way." said the girl. Her eyes, like smoky emeralds, turned towards the stars.

"Where did you find the gods then?"

"I didn't have to find them, Ulfrin. The gods will come to you if you call to them, so long as you believe in them."

"What if I am not sure I believe anymore?" said Ulfrin, rather flustered.

"Don't be foolish, of course you do!" she said, as a pearly-white smile spread across her soft features. "You wouldn't be looking for the gods if you didn't believe. Hrolfir believed too. He is surely in the hall of the gods."

"How could you know that Hrolfir believed, then? How do you even know my name?"

The girl winked at him and whispered "That would be telling, wouldn't it?" The music filtering out of the open hall faded and died, and an absolute silence took its place. "It sounds like Gudbjorn is going to tell us a tale." She said, "Come in from the cold and listen. It'll make you feel better." She smiled as she melted into the shadows of the darkened hall. She's right, I do feel better, thought Ulfrin as he followed the mysterious girl back into the longhall in much better spirits than before.

Ulfrin blinked back the shadows as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the hall. The torches had been doused, and only the fire in the center of the hall illuminated the room. Ulfrin looked around and found the girl from outside, sitting cross-legged in her dress on a bench in the far corner of the hall. As Ulfrin sat beside her on the bench, Gudbjorn started to tell his tale. The fire danced and the shadows flickered as the old man told the story of Tyr, the god of law and justice, and the great wolf, Fenris.

"The great wolf, Fenris, was not always great. He was born the eldest son of the giantess Angrboda. When he was young he was but a little, furry pup, but already he was ferocious. The gods caged him to keep him from harming anyone, but not one of the gods stepped forward to care for the caged beast save Tyr. Tyr faithfully cared for the beast, feeding it and giving it water, making sure the god-wolf got its exercise," There was some drunken laughter at this, and Gudbjorn continued. "But, to the gods' dismay, the beast soon grew great. The gods, desperate to restrain him, spoke to the wolf, and wagered that if they could find a chain strong enough to hold him, he would accept his captivity. Unfortunately, the wolf had grown so strong that no fetter could hold it, as no matter how thick were the manacles, the beast could shatter them as if they were no more than daisy chains. The rampaging, chaotic fiend was unstoppable. Angered at their failure, the great gods went to the dwarf-smiths, desperate for a solution, and asked for a magic chain to hold the wolf. The dwarves, after many months, produced a gleaming ribbon called Gleipnir. It was forged from the footstep of a cat, the roots of a mountain, a woman's beard, the breath of fishes, the sinews of a bear, and a bird's spittle. The gods happily took the unbreakable ribbon back to their realm of Asgard to chain Fenris, eager to neutralize the terrible beast. As they showed the thin ribbon to the wolf and asked to put it around his neck, the great wolf scoffed. 'Surely you can do better than a ribbon, great gods of Asgard!' The wolf knelt down to be bound yet again, but at the last second he said 'Stop! I smell a hint of trickery about this. I will be bound in this ribbon, but only if I receive a token of goodwill. If one of you mighty gods will but place their hand in between my jaws, then I will let you put that ribbon about my neck.'"

The fire seemed to dim, and for a minute Ulfrin could have sworn that he saw the grinning jaws of the mighty wolf silhouetted by the shadows on the wall. Suddenly, the fire leapt up again, and it appeared to burn with the resolve of Tyr himself.

"Tyr stepped forward and proudly proclaimed 'I will offer my hand. May my sacrifice bind the savage beast.' The gods stood aside to let the Hero God past. Fenris knelt upon his front paws, like a great dog stretching, and took the thin ribbon around his neck. The beast thrashed and thrashed and the ground quaked for miles around. The yowling of the wolf carried across all the worlds of Yggdrasil, but still Gleipnir held fast. Enraged at his defeat, the wolf tore off Tyr's divine hand. The bonds were tightened, and Fenris was dragged howling into a tunnel a mile under the earth, where he still lies chained today. Tyr's sacrifice to quell the wolf returned order to Asgard, and the Gods rejoiced in his victory." A wide grin spread across Gudbjorn's wrinkled face as he raised his tankard. "To heroes! May Tyr always smile upon those who sacrifice for the things they hold dear!" The longhall erupted into a raucous cheer as tankards clashed and drained. The music resumed at a merry tempo, and the hall was filled with happy laughter. The mysterious girl smiled and stood as she made her way to the door.

"Aren't you going to tell me your name?" Ulfrin called after her as he rose.

"I'm Domhildr, but you can call me Hildi." Hildi called back from the doorway. Ulfrin watched her leave with an odd smile plastered on his face. He felt immensely better, more assured of his friend's fate. As he contemplated Hrolfir's fate, Surtr came stumbling up to him.

"You have your eye on that one? A fine choice, she is." Slurred Surtr, jesturing with a meaty, unsteady hand towards Hildi.

"My eye on her? Of course not, I hardly know her."

"Why're ye so enthralled with the lass, then, eh?"

"Well, it's odd; she seems to know me better than any of my friends, and I've never seen her before in my life." Mused Ulfrin. Surtr left Ulfrin with a grunt of disinterest and began mingling with the barwenches. Ulfrin smiled and shook his head at Surtr's drunken attempts at winning a lady as he rushed out the door to see if he might catch up to Hildi and walk her home.

Ulfrin walked out of the hall just in time to see Hildi round a corner. He dashed up to the corner through the darkness, and saw Hildi in the distance. He tried to close the gap between the two of them with as much cool as he could muster. Hildi turned, squinted through the shadows at Ulfrin, and ducked behind a house before Ulfrin could reach her. Ulfrin knitted his brow at her odd behavior and turned to enter the alley, but his progress was interrupted by an iron-hard blow to the face. Ulfrin hit the ground with a smack. His sight blurred by the blow, he looked up and saw a familiar figure in a dress.

"Gods! Ulfrin! I'm so sorry! I thought you were a mugger, following me like that." said Hildi, now turning a vivid crimson with embarrassment.

"Ye gods, Hildi, where did that come from? I've never been punched so hard in my life." Ulfrin whimpered in a nasal voice as he attempted to staunch the river of blood issuing from his nose and dribbling down his chin; for once, Ulfrin was glad that he was never able to grow a beard. "I think you broke my nose. Heavens help me, how will I explain this to the captain?"

Hildi, now a mortified shade of maroon, turned Ulfrin's head to the side. "Thank goodness, it's not broken. Gods above, I'm so sorry! Come inside, I'll patch you up. The captain won't know anything happened. Except for the black eye, he'll notice that." Ulfrin automatically reached for his left eye and yelped at the sudden pain. Hildi sighed and led the injured warrior inside by one hand as he used the other do dab at his bloody face with his furs.

The inside of Hildi's home was, for lack of a better adjective, feminine. All over the shelves were little trinkets; a doll here, a music box there, a carved wooden jewelry case in the corner. A spinning wheel sat in the back of the one-room house; it was immaculately clean, yet it looked as if it hadn't been used in a great long while. A small pot hung on an iron hook over the fireplace, bubbling over with water. Hildi's bed was an old mahogany thing that was carved all over with roses. Various articles of clothing in various shades of pastel hung out of her open wardrobe.

"You just sit here a moment," commanded Hildi, pushing Ulfrin down into a cushy pink sofa. She filled a waterskin with cool water. "Now hold that on your eye. Let me find something for that nosebleed before you ruin your good clothes."

"I think it's stopping, Hildi, there really is no need."

"No, I am the one that punched you in the face; I have to do something to help." Hildi's blush had simmered down to a uniform shade of pink. "Now lie down, you can rest here. I don't want the captain to see that I punched his favorite pupil in the face."

"Why would you care about what the captain of the warband thinks?"

"Lie down!" Shouted Hildi, shoving Ulfrin angrily back on the sofa and putting a deerskin pillow behind his head in one swift motion.

"Okay, fine, just don't punch me again." Said Ulfrin, figuring it must be a sensitive subject.

"Are you comfortable?" Hildi asked, her blush now completely faded.

"Yes, I think the nosebleed stopped." Ulfrin answered drowsily.

"Good," said Hildi, "Then sleep"

Ulfrin wanted to protest, but he found himself already drifting into slumber. His eyelids grew heavy and he slipped into the realm of dreams.

Ulfrin couldn't move. He just saw Hrolfir die over and over. The sun streamed through the trees, but instead of light it traced black shadows on the ground. Ulfrin looked to the skies and prayed, but no help came. The javelins just stabbed into the forest floor and his friend over and over again.

Ulfrin awoke to a clattering noise. Hildi loomed over him, her short hair hanging towards his face, as she tried to shake him awake.

"Wake up, Ulfrin! It's Oath-Taking Day!" Said Hildi, her voice edged with excitement. Of course, thought Ulfrin, how could I have forgotten! It was Oath-Taking Day, the first day of the War Season, the day when men and women swore their oaths and joined warbands, or renewed those oaths they had already taken. Ulfrin was expected to meet with the other members of his warband and renew his oath. As the fog of sleep cleared from his head, he noticed something odd about Hildi.

"Hildi, why are you dressed for battle?"

It was true. Hildi had donned a studded leather cuirass, two brass bracers on her wrists, two steel greaves on her shins, and a long canvas skirt. Hildi just smiled and jammed a helmet on her head. The room, the picture of tidiness and feminine grace as of yesterday, was in complete disarray. The great oak wardrobe had had its contents spilled out on the floor, exposing a beautiful short sword and a gleaming round shield strapped to the boards behind the dresses.

"I got your stuff for you." Hildi said, jesturing towards Ulfrin's familiar wooden chest in which he kept all his equipment.

"How did you get it over here!?" Ulfrin said, completely aghast. He knew the chest weighed well over a hundred and fifty pounds and his house was a good mile away.

Hildi laughed. "Don't be foolish. Surtr helped me cart it over in his wagon."

"Oh. I figured as much." Ulfrin mumbled. "Now, do you think I might get some privacy while I change?"

"Oh, right. Sorry." The now-armored Hildi grabbed her sword and shield and shuffled out of her room.

"Wait!" shouted Ulfrin "Aren't you going to tell me exactly why you are looking so… battle ready?"

"Can't you tell? I'm going to join our village's warband!" Hildi said, now hopping up and down with excitement.

"You want to become a shield maiden?" Scoffed Ulfrin, incredulous at the thought. A cold fire filled Hildi's eyes as she stomped towards Ulfrin. "Aah! I'm sorry! Just don't punch me again!" squealed Ulfrin.

"You bet you are." Said Hildi, giggling. "See you at the meeting-ground!" She bounded out the door, equipment clattering around her. Ulfrin smiled and shook his head, thinking of Hildi fighting against the Roman horde. His smile began to change texture as the thought of Hildi in tight-fitting battle raiment started to become more and more appealing. Suddenly embarrassed by the thought, he shook his head and quickly changed into his gear.

The meeting-ground was packed with people from the village and surrounding villages who hoped to join Grimr's famous warband. Men and women milled about, some sparring, some talking, some feasting. The grind of whetstones on blades filled the air like the drone of a thousand insects. The meeting ground was thronged with the parents of young boys, saying tearful farewells to their offspring. The blacksmith smiled and wiped the sweat from his brow; he would get more business today than he would get the rest of the year combined. Ulfrin began to make his way through the throng to see captain Grimr. Along the way, he passed Gudbjorn.

"G'Morning, Ulfrin."

"G'morning, Gudbjorn." Ulfrin walked past Gudbjorn when he suddenly tripped over what he at first mistook for a small animal. To anyone it would appear to be a small animal, except for the odd muttering and hand jestures it began to make.

"Ratatosk! I told you a thousand times, you cannot cast curses on everyone who trips over you!" Gudbjorn roared. He struck the little boy a sharp blow in the forehead with his staff.

"Ow! I'm sorry, master!" said the boy, his eyes widening in a piteous expression as a solitary tear ran down his cheek.

"What is that, Gudbjorn?" Ulfrin asked quizzically.

"This is Ratatosk, my apprentice. He has been tending to my house for the past year while I have been abroad." Gudbjorn explained. Ulfrin looked questioningly at the little lad. He wore a tattered brown robe with a high collar and sleeves that were far too long. He couldn't have been taller than four feet three. His eyes were black as the void, but the most striking feature about him was his hair. It was a set of beautiful, neck-length, glossy-brown locks that seemed to flow with the slightest breeze. The overall impression he gave was that he was some kind of very well groomed burrowing mammal. "He's as sharp as a tack, this one. He's stronger than he looks, too." Ratatosk grinned maniacally at the praise. Gudbjorn leaned in to whisper into Ulfrin's ear. "And if you want to keep all your limbs, please don't comment on his age. He hates that."

Suddenly, as if on cue, Surtr blurted "How old is the brat? What business does he have here?" Ratatosk's expression changed from angelic serenity to demonic aggression in a second as he leapt through the air at Surtr's head. Surtr cried out, but was too late to stop the raging little apprentice to the bard. "Gods dammit! Get it off of me!" Surtr screamed, tearing at Ratatosk's cloak with his hands. Just as suddenly as when the attack started, Ratatosk leapt off of Surtr's back and toddled back to Gudbjorn, looking angelic once more, save for the lock of Surtr's jet-black hair sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Surtr, barely restrained by his fellow warriors, was dragged away from the little child cursing and spitting.

Gudbjorn smacked Ratatosk in the face again. "Try to control yourself, lad! I'm not going to be yelling at you for the whole War Season. Try to restrain your anger every once in a while." Lectured the elderly magician. Ratatosk just smiled at Surtr out of the corner of his eye, spat out the hair, and seemed to drift after his master in his ill-fitting cloak.

Ulfrin's attention was drawn away from the young apprentice's antics by Grimr's booming voice as he addressed the gathered warriors from the top of a large crate. "Greetings and welcome, those who would wish to become warriors! I am Grimr, and I will be your captain. Everything I say, you shall do. All insubordination will be dealt with harshly. Some of you may be fresh hands, and you will be welcomed, but do not expect it to be easy. This is war, and some of you will die." Grimr's face changed to a smile. "Lucky for you dogs, your deaths will be honorable! As we are gifted with such a dangerous profession, every meal we eat will be a feast! Every passing moment is like the sweetest elixir for you know you earned it by performing on the field of battle! If you fail, you die an honorable death." The captain's smile morphed into a maniac grin as he continued. "But, if you succeed, you live an honorable life! Money, food, fame, and glory are all in your grasp!" The crowd, now quite jittery with excitement, hung on Grimr's every word. "Now line up, men! Let you swear your oaths and bind yourself to the finest group of fighting men in Middle Earth!"

The ragtag recruits formed a fairly straight single-file line in front of the crate where Grimr stood. Grimr walked down the line, taking the oaths of each man in turn. A surprising variety of people were here today, and since all provided their own weapons, the oath varied for each person. Some knelt with their swords, some saluted with spears, some swung axes to seal the oath.

On down the line Grimr moved, each man swearing his oath, until the captain reached a man who hid his face in a cloak. Suddenly, moving like a blur, Grimr flipped back the hood of the man's robe and had his sword to the man's throat. Exposed for all to see were the square, shaven jaw, imperious nose, and short-cut brown hair of a Roman infantryman!

The crowd gasped and Grimr shouted in the man's face. "So, you would come to ruin our ceremony, would you? A noble enemy you are, attacking men even as they join the army."

The man did not flinch. "It is true; the honor of Rome is lax of late." said the mysterious Roman, speaking in a slow, deliberate manner, as one unused to the Norse language. "We are governed by weak fools with no concept of war. I come to join a people who might still have a hint of dignity about them. Would you accept my oath?" The roman saluted in legionary fashion.

Grimr, though obviously irked at the man's clinging to roman ways, sheathed his blade. "We will accept you as a brother in our warband, friend. Be wary, though, if I smell any hint of treachery about you, even the slightest error, then I will stand you up before me and cut you down. Let us have your oath."

The roman swore, and the crowd let out a sigh of relief. The ceremony continued without further interruption, and soon the ceremony was finished. The warriors talked excitedly among themselves, discussing the mysterious events and the new recruits. Fifteen young boys, twenty-three warriors from abroad, seven shield maidens, and the roman all added their strengths to Grimr's warband. Once more, Grimr climbed atop the crate and addressed the gathered crowd, sweating in their armor under the noonday sun.

"As you know, today marks the beginning of the season of war. This one will be especially glorious, for Rome would try to push us from our lands! It is our duty to repel them, but our pleasure to pursue them. The Romans are worthy foes, and every one of them we kill will count for the fate of our souls when we are ferried from the battlefield by the Valkyries. Let us earn our afterlife, and ascend to Valhalla as heroes! Gather your gear, for now we march to the south, to victory and glory!" The warband let out a tremendous cheer. As the raucous cheering died down, the warriors each gathered up their gear and the supply wagons began to roll down the road. Ulfrin gazed south past the rolling hills to the southern horizon, a brilliant green under a pale blue cloud-speckled sky, and prayed to any god that might hear that their campaign be a good one.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The March

It was the first of many days of marching steadily towards the south, where the warband would meet with hundreds of others from around the countryside, combining in an effort to drive back the forces of Rome. The warband's first destination would be the town of Thursvale, some thirty miles distant. All around, the excited jabber of the new recruits and the chatter of the experienced warriors filled the air. Some of the men around the supply wagon started singing a long, lilting marching song about a lovestruck maiden and the young soldier she yearned for. They had been marching for several hours now, and the sun was beginning to sink below the horizon.

"Company halt! We rest here tonight, lads. Let's make camp!" commanded Grimr. Much action ensued as various members of the warband lit fires or struck up tents. The supply wagons were opened up and salted meats were distributed to the warriors. Ulfrin, while carrying a bunch of tent-poles, happened upon the mysterious Roman, sitting on a large rock and absent-mindedly picking his teeth with a dagger. Ulfrin scowled, threw the tent-poles to one of the other men and walked over to the boulder where the Roman was seated.

"So, you think yourself so high and mighty that you don't have to help us set up camp?" called Ufrin to the relaxed legionnaire.

"Well, it seems to me that you fellows are managing just fine without me." Intoned the Roman lazily.

"Listen here, friend," said Ulfrin testily, jabbing the Roman in the ribs with a finger, "You better start doing something, else you wont be welcome in this warband for long."

"Easy, buddy! I'm not just sitting here for my health." said the man, pushing aside Ulfrin's hand. Suddenly, in the woods just past the boulder, there was a loud snap. "See what I mean? Come; let's see what my trap has found today." The roman said in his odd accent, grinning triumphantly.

The two approached the trap to find a great wild boar with its leg caught in a snare made of two springloaded logs, each studded with nails. The animal kicked and squealed as the trap creaked.

"Let's get it before it breaks my trap, friend!" said the man frantically. Ulfrin already had a throwing axe out and was preparing to end the struggling animal's life. With a step and a flick of his wrist, Ulfrin sent the axe spinning through the air toward the boar's head. At the last possible second, however, the creature twisted aside! With a moan of disappointment the roman pulled from his back a javelin, a short and heavy Pila of the Roman legion. He hurled the weapon with apparently little effort. The javelin flew straight and true and struck the animal in its chest. With a final heave, the creature's fighting ceased and it collapsed to the earth in a puddle of blood.

"You might want to work on that throw, friend, before you think of going into battle." Jested the roman.

"That pig had a lucky break. I would'a hit it if I had another throwing axe with me." said Ulfrin with a bit of embarrassment, "Now, if you don't mind, what IS your name?"

"You may call me Marcus Oppius Barbarus, and who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?"

"Ulfrin Jormundsson. Come, let us get this meal back to the camp!"

Ulfrin placed a foot on the fallen boar and pulled out the javelin with both hands. He handed it to Marcus, who then pried the trap off of its leg. Marcus stowed away his trap in a voluminous sack upon his waist. Ulfrin struggled to lift the great boar over his shoulder. The beast was nearly the weight of a full-grown man. The warriors greeted the arrival of the fresh meat with a raucous cheer. A great fire was made and an iron spit was pulled from the supply wagon. The entire camp, moving like a great creature hungering for a meal, slowly shifted to surround the roasting boar. Most everyone stopped what they were doing to join in the festivities. Soon everyone was enjoying the feast. The new warriors smiled and laughed with the old, and a happy unity pervaded the warband with the smell of roasting meat.

Hrissikar was really supposed to be on sentry duty, but so were many others. What could happen to them? They were miles inside their own territory, and the only Romans anywhere near there were the ones that the warband had driven off the other day. Hrissikar had joined after hearing of the heroics in that battle. Hrissikar sat with some of his friends, happily munching on boar, discussing with them the glory of the past campaigns Grimr's Warband had been on. He suddenly felt the need to empty his bladder, excused himself, and headed towards the woods. When he felt he was deep enough in, he began to undo his trousers, but suddenly stopped. He could have sworn that he had heard something moving through the trees.

'Well, I am supposed to be on sentry duty,' he told himself helpfully. He drew his sword but didn't bother to hold it in any sort of threatening manner, in case he just heard another warrior answering the call of the wild.

'Hmm, must've been nothing.' Hrissikar thought, just before a crossbow bolt pierced his left ear

Ulfrin was just swallowing a gulp of ale when he heard a terrible yell of pain from the woods. He passed ale through his nose in surprise, spraying one of the new recruits with drink. Out of the trees streaked Hrissikar, running like greased lightning, squealing like a pig, trousers half undone, and bleeding profusely from the side of his head. He zigzagged towards the camp as bolts dug into the forest floor all around him. Ulfrin reflexively drew his battleaxe and set himself in a defensive stance.

"Picts! The Picts are attacking!" shrieked the sentry, now dashing behind the cover of his fellow warriors. Much bolstered by the presence of his fellow warriors, he drew his sword and put up his shield, though the fear had not yet left his eyes.

"How many?" commanded Grimr

"I didn't see them, sir." Quailed Hrissikar

"A lot of use you are. Gudbjorn?"

"I sense…"Gudbjorn began

"At least twenty, not more than twenty-five." Ratatosk interrupted. Ulfrin looked on appraisingly as the little child pulled on two oversized, razor-clawed, jet-black metal gauntlets and began to crack his knuckles.

"The boy does not lie. There are twenty-three." Grimr said flatly.

"Well then, I guess they aren't expecting a fully-armed band of ferocious fighters." Grimr said, with a hearty chuckle, and started issuing orders. "Men, form up! Circle formation around the supply wagon! They likely want to steal our supplies"

Gudbjorn put a hand on Ratatosk's shoulder and bent low to whisper into his ear. Ratatosk nodded, deftly slid off his oversized brown robe and vanished into the night. Ulfrin tensed as the battle lines formed and the forest went absolutely silent.

"What happened to the birdsong? I've never heard the woods this quiet before." One of the recruits whispered.

"These Picts are dark men, who live in dark places. Their skin is pallid white, traced with lines of blue. You would think they would stand out, but they have magic that hides them. No one can track them through the woods. It is said they can melt into the trees if they so desire. The birdsong stopped because the birds are afraid that the Picts will hear them." Ulfrin said in a carrying whisper, stifling a snicker as the greener soldiers began to shake.

What Ulfrin knew that the fresh recruits did not was that they were very, very lucky. If Hrissikar hadn't ran into them in the woods, the Picts would probably have gotten the jump on them. Hiding in silence in the woods, they would wait for the soldiers to fall asleep and then sneak in and slit their throats. Ulfrin shuddered to think the massacre they had narrowly avoided. Luckily for them, twenty-three picts was absolutely no match for a fully-armed warband, no matter how sneaky they were.

Ratatosk threaded his way through the trees as deftly as his squirrel namesake. This would be a cakewalk, he thought to himself, clenching gauntleted hands tight. His gauntlets were his only reminder of the life he once knew. A pampered little prince of a far off desert kingdom, he was raised to be a proper child through and through. Something about him always frightened his teachers, however. He seemed to be just a little too excited when he made a kill while hunting, and an odd sparkle showed in his eyes whenever blood began to flow. Swordsmanship, poetry, literature, riding, hunting, etiquette, no matter what young Ratatosk studied, he excelled, but something seemed off. Every one of his teachers detected a subtle boredom in Ratatosk, but not the usual boredom of youth. Behind his eyes was patience, the bored patience of the cobra waiting for the proper moment to strike. And never once did Ratatosk ever show any love for anyone.

They found him one day, covered in blood, dagger in hand, standing over the body of a servant. No one knew why he had killed her, but that wasn't the main reason that people were afraid. Ratatosk showed no remorse. A little boy, barely nine, had just slaughtered a woman mercilessly and the only emotion he showed was a vague annoyance that the servant didn't show him the respect he deserved. The news of the murder spread through the kingdom like wildfire and swirling winds of controversy engulfed the royal family. Gudbjorn was passing through the village at the time and quickly heard the news. He went before the king and queen of that little desert kingdom, and he gave them a choice. They could either let Gudbjorn take the child under his wing, raising him as an apprentice, teaching him all he knew and showing him the way of kindness and respect, or they could keep him and one day find themselves with their throats cut by their own son. Ratatosk's cold, calculating gaze was something new to that little land in the desert, but Gudbjorn had seen it a thousand times. Ratatosk's eyes were the eyes of a usurper.

The king and queen entrusted their son to Gudbjorn. They outfitted Ratatosk for his apprenticeship with the finest they had to offer. He was given armor, crafted to fit him, a beautiful scimitar, and fine traveling clothes that would never wear out. Their greatest gift, however, was the one gift Ratatosk held to this day. Long had the reliquaries of the kingdom held those fine gauntlets now on Ratatosk's arms. Forged hundreds of years ago from black meteoric iron taken from the heart of a fallen star, carved in beautiful silver filigree that seemed to dance like incense smoke on the air, with sharpened claws that could cut through anything with ease. The black gauntlets had magic in them, and they were said to contain the bound soul of a warlock from long ago, who is now forced to toil ceaselessly to make sure the edges of the gauntlets' claws never dull. The Gauntlets were more than works of art, more than weapons, they were the epitome of perfection in any armament.

Lost in nostalgic reminisce, Ratatosk nearly blundered into one of the Picts. The Wildman was hiding on the edge of the clearing, crude crossbow in hand, waiting for the signal to make a move. He would never hear it, for before he had the chance to react, two clawed fingers traced parallel lines of spurting crimson across his throat. Even before the body hit the ground, Ratatosk had melted back into the shadows. He moved like lightning, dancing his way towards another Pict who had set himself up in a tree. Even from the ground, Ratatosk could clearly see that his crossbow was a cut above the gear of the other Wildman. His face was more pale, the woad tattoos that all Picts wore were traced with extra gusto upon his face and chest. The Wildman raised a hand, and Ratatosk shuddered as he knew the leader was about to command the hidden Picts to fire. Moving with rodentlike speed, gauntlets digging into the soft birch bark of the tree, Ratatosk scampered up and stabbed the man in the chest before he had could shoulder his crossbow.

The other Picts, with their weapons ready to fire on the warband and looking to their leader for the signal, all saw Ratatosk's attack. From the camp, the motion in the trees was undoubtedly that of confusion and chaos. One Pict, however, did not stir. He uttered a low, warbling birdcall, sounding like a loon from the lake. The motion in the trees stopped as all the Picts took aim on Ratatosk.

Ratatosk realized his mistake before he had made it. He was already in motion, scampering down the tree and into cover behind a boulder just in time to hear the clatter of crossbow bolts on rock. He cursed his luck, for he knew he was now trapped and that the Picts would move around for the kill any moment now. Thinking quickly, he had an idea. Foolish, maybe, for he had never attempted the spell before, but a crossbow bolt whizzing above his head informed him of the alternative. The little Ratatosk jumped out from behind the boulder, trying to look defiant but only succeeding in looking small and rodent-like. He formed the rune quickly with his gauntleted hands and called out loudly in a firm voice "Raidho!"

Ratatosk vanished in a puff of faintly glowing blue smoke just as twenty-one crossbow bolts pierced the air where he once stood. The blue smoke briefly swirled into the shape of a horse's head before dissipating. Back in the clearing, over the heads of the assembled infantry, there was a loud pop. About ten feet in the air, a swirling cloud of blue smoke condensed into the startled Ratatosk. He plummeted from the swirling portal crashed into several of the soldiers. Before he even hit the ground, it seemed, Ratatosk was already hurrying over to Gudbjorn.

"I've killed the enemy leader, master! I also eliminated one of the soldiers." Ratatosk squeaked excitedly.

"Did you see me teleport? It was amazing! I've never done any magic like it before! There is such power in it, such possibility!" Ratatosk rattled on, as if any one of them had not just him vanish very theatrically and reappear in a puff of smoke above their heads.

"You need training, Ratatosk. That was a rash move, and you know it. Your destination was obviously not clear in your mind, or you wouldn't have appeared ten feet above our heads. You try that again, nine times out of ten you will end up ten feet underground." Berated Gudbjorn, but it couldn't be plainer that there was amusement in his voice.

Shocked by the display of aptitude by Ratatosk, the Picts were already in a silent retreat. The occupants of the warband congratulated Ratatosk heartily and gave him some extra boar for his heroic move. Ratatosk, munching away happily, soaked up the praise like a sponge. It was an odd sight, a little boy with flowing hair sitting next to a fire, being peppered with praise by a bunch of battle-hardened Norse warriors. The night was drawing to a close, however, and Grimr ordered the warband to get some shut-eye.


End file.
